


Elevation

by ryme_intrinseca



Category: The Restoration Series - Edward Marston
Genre: 999 words exactly, Drabble Series, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26268235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryme_intrinseca/pseuds/ryme_intrinseca
Summary: "Are you not shocked, sir?" Bale asked of his friend.
Relationships: Jonathan Bale/Christopher Redmayne
Comments: 8
Kudos: 2
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Elevation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoreyG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/gifts).



> A drabble series, taking place after the events of _The Painted Lady_.

"But this is magnificent, Jonathan!”

Bale flushed with pleasure both at the praise and the sight of his friend, Christopher Redmayne, bending over the latest scale model he’d produced. Accurate in every detail, it had taken Bale many hours of painstaking labour. Though his wife Sarah chided him for his distraction, she was glad of the coin he made from his efforts. But not as glad as Bale was to see Christopher’s narrow face light up with joy, and to feel the force of exuberance that, possibly, he should find unbecoming, but did not.

Could not—because it was Christopher.

Their shared delight was short-lived. A thunderous knocking at the door of Christopher’s house on Fetter Lane had the old servant, Jacob, shuffling to answer its summons. Henry Redmayne blew in like an ill-wind, silks and satins in peacock colours that had no business combined together. He struck a tragic pose on the threshold. “Christopher! Brother! As you love me as your sibling, I implore you—help me!”

"What ails you?” Christopher enquired. “Do you need a loan?”

Bale bridled, uneasy in Henry’s company. The man was a rake and a wastrel, but worse—he commanded Christopher’s attention and love.

“I have no money to spare,” Christopher indicated Bale’s model, “until Sir Jeremiah’s house is built.”

“I need not money, but more esoteric assistance.” With every dramatic step, Henry’s periwig shook off powder like a blizzard. “My good friend—my dear, wounded companion Mr Humphrey Rushden is—is— Oh, I can scarce believe it! He is—”

Tiring of this tomfoolery, Bale asked, “Is the gentleman dead?”

Henry reared back with such haste, his clove-scented pomander struck his leg. Smothering a curse the likes of which Bale could not fully comprehend, the fop cried, “Dead? No! Worse! He is _blackmailed_!”

It transpired that Rushden was a colleague of Henry’s in the Navy Office. Sensitive documents relating to the victualling of His Majesty’s fleet had been misplaced in a certain tavern, and now the hapless Rushden was forced to pay beyond his means to recover said papers.

“It’s in your parish,” Henry said, addressing Bale with spite. “You should do something about it.”

“And so we shall,” Christopher cried. “Which tavern was it? Jonathan and I will make enquiries. If we can retrieve the documents, they’ll be returned to their rightful owner forthwith.”

Henry’s smile fluttered. “The Cock inn, near St Paul’s.”

The streets about St Paul’s were dark, thick with sin. Bale knew what went on in the churchyard. As a God-fearing man, he shunned it. But strange how he felt no sin when he gazed upon Christopher, tall and lithe with a ready smile just for him. Bale hunched into his coat, awkward and unwieldy as he kept pace beside his friend.

“Here is the place.” Christopher opened the door and stepped into a rowdy-pit of wreathing tobacco-smoke, the slop of spilled beer, and the press of heated bodies. He turned, red hair curling over his collar. “Are you coming?”

Bale entered the tavern with trepidation, but soon was easy. He saw no women of dubious morals, no maids abandoning their virtue.

He saw no women at all.

A rugged fellow with scarred arms and sailor’s gait blocked their path. “What’s your interest, good sirs?”

Christopher’s glance had comprehended what Bale had not. “We come at the suggestion of Samson Dinley.”

“Dinley?” The fellow roared with laughter. “Ain’t no female-wannabes here. This pub is for men who want _men_.” His gaze fell on Bale. “Like this fine bantam. Why’d y’need to venture here, when you have _him_ at your disposal?”

They sat with tankards in hand, self-conscious amongst the antics of their fellow men. Bale felt himself reddening as two strapping fellows bussed lips. In a corner not nearly discreet enough, three men disported themselves with a lissom youth.

It was too easy to imagine himself seated there, legs spread and cock out, Christopher kneeling eagerly to pleasure him.

Bale wet his dry throat with another draught of ale. He should banish thoughts of Christopher’s curls dancing merrily across his thighs, of laughing eyes and a strong, supple body spread out on a featherbed.

Such luxuries were not for him.

"Are you not shocked, sir?” Bale asked of his friend.

Christopher was looking about him with more than scientific interest, a becoming blush on his cheek and a glitter in his eye. “I confess I was, when first I visited a Molly house.”

Bale nearly toppled from his stool. “What!”

“At the invitation of my brother, in pursuit of the portrait of Lady Culthorpe,” Christopher explained with absent air, taking a long swallow of wine. “Back then I thought them odd. But this is different.”

“In what way?”

Christopher looked at him. “These are men, not substitute women. It’s… honest.”

While Bale pondered, Christopher asked passers-by, “Mr Humphrey Rushden. Where does he sit? With whom does he spend his time?”

All questions had the same answer: No one knew of any man by that name, or by the description Henry had provided.

“Perhaps my brother was mistaken,” Christopher fretted. “Or his intelligence was wrong.”

“I don’t believe so.” Bale tore his gaze from the sight of a man fondling another’s bare arse. “I think he directed us here to mock me.”

Christopher frowned, stirring a finger in his cup of Canary wine. “Why?”

“He knows how I feel about you.”

Christopher’s eyes were wide. His lips glistened with the residue of wine. “How do you feel?”

Bale cursed his clumsiness. He was no courtier with fine words, but a plain man. A man known by his deeds rather than his eloquence. Slowly, he threaded his fingers through the chestnut curls he so loved and brought himself to Christopher’s mouth.

“Like this,” he said, and kissed him.

He must remember to thank Henry Redmayne for this chance.

The revellers around them broke into ribald cheers and applause.

“Oh Jonathan,” Christopher said when they parted, flush-faced and smiling, “that was _magnificent_.”


End file.
